A Contorted Faculty.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Historical Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
This story was set in 1856. It was primarily written to signify my love for the Victorian era. Where it may be written morbidly, its intention is not to reflect my own perception. It is to highlight the ruthlessness that took place during this century and how people were simply heartless when it came to disadvantaged people - discrimination swarmed this era like no other, and the people who were valued the most were upper-class rich aristocrats that believed they were superior to other’s due to their wealth. I believe I have presented this in a highly dramatic, hyperbolic, fictional and descriptive way.

It is advised that you do not read this story if you are squeamish to gruesome and vivid description.

Submitted: August 13, 2013

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Submitted: August 13, 2013



The aristocrats converse about politics and war whilst the bland, colourless butler serves us severed heads on silver platters. We pour the wine, we drink the wine, we light the cigars, we smoke the cigars, and out of the dull gleam of my grey eyes I gaze upon my party, top hats reaching the ceiling as the canes of the gentlemen dig through the cracks of the creaking floorboards.

The women are subdued to the drafts in the manor that sweep them off their feet, their hearts heavily fly throughout the dainty room whilst the whisper off the wind alters to a screech which pierces the ears only that of dogs.

The atmosphere is smothered in coverlets of silky smoke, whirling through the room as the hand gestures of men and women depict old stories that swim in pools only of tragedy and truth. And with the lipstick that clings to the wine glass of a Duchess, the most opulent of silverware is tapped gently against it and a toast is made in honour of life and death. 

A captivating scent swarms the room like a colony of roses, fighting back against such dominant topics of conversation and combating with the aroma of tobacco being burned throughout the air. A peace is filled throughout the minds of the Dictators, the Governors, the Counts and the Countesses.

Floral harmony sings its sweet song as the youngest member of the party sits down and runs his pale, talented fingers up and down the keys of the grand piano. Coughs of dust emerge from the instrument and a poignant symphony resonates amiably but the influential power of the composition is too intense and the room is eventually alive and dancing with the melody of moonlight.

Chills slither up the spines of those that appreciate the grand song, like crawling dead vines, although minorities of recluses refuse to dance and just simply sit amongst the frocks of old wenches and babble about the dullest of things.

Pristine posture is essential when it comes to the prosperity of hosting such parties, and the chins of my guests are tilted up at the moon that boasts its beauty through the holes of the velvet curtains.

The stunning contradiction of the amazing moonlit music and the drab dust and smoke that hazes the room is too much for one Countess to bear, and her wineglass slips from her cold palm as she collapses in layers upon layers of her golden gown. Her husband hangs his pipe behind his ear, and rushes to her aid. 
The music stops.

He clenches onto her hand of ice that is drenched in bloody red wine. Her heart is grasped by death and she is taken from this world onto the next. Her widower’s eyes are glazed with crystal tears and droplets of his sadness hit the broken glass that lies under her hand.

Once again, the boy plays the piano, and we all dig into the dead corpse on the floor, sucking the blood, removing the organs, feeding on the last of the life that hides within the dead carcass. Some would call it morbid, but such conduct is expected of those with dark minds. The dead woman's husband resists at first, but then can't help the sweet salty temptation that his lips crave, and he bites into the neck of his dead wife, and drains her veins dry. 
The party moves itself out the doors to convene in the hall. In an orderly line, one follows the other. Whispers of cigar smoke follow us out and the boy plays the piano louder for the whole manor to hear. 

One by one we hold an organ of my dead guest, and place them in order of size upon the staircase. We look upon the insides of the dead Countess, bidding her a due and paying the sincerest of respects to what used to be full of life and is now as frosty and dead as the nails that we stab through her arms to secure her to the banister – a nice decoration and remembrance of the beautiful woman. To climb those stairs and run my hands along her blood-soaked organs daily would be a demanding challenge, but I am sure she won't be using them again anytime soon.

An abrupt draft sweeps in under our feet as my ostentatious oak door is slammed open. A police constable stands there; his chest ballooned through his belted blazer. The rain hits off his helmet on the doorstep and beside him, my cousin –my slave– hangs his head low in shame as he sits on his wheelchair. 

“I came across this disgusting handicap as I was doing my duty on Church Court. He was trying to roll away,” The constable announces to us. 
“Push him out into my coal mine again and bolt the gate tight. He doesn’t realise how fortunate he is to dig for coal for such elegant people as myself,” I declare, gesturing around the hallway.
“If I may, my lord...” My cousin begins to murmur. “How do you have such expectancies of me? I am disabled. It is hard for me to dig for coal. It strains my spine and it is difficult to wheel myself around in the mine.”
I narrow my eyes at the handicap in anger, and he looks down again, retreating into his horrible self. “Try,” I snap.
The police constable notices our bloody decorations on my staircase. “Who is that you are tearing apart there, Lord Terrain?” 
“The Countess of Kennard, sir,” I reply.

He is wary for a moment, squinting his eyes at my guests who stand there, still in shock that the revolting handicap even spoke to me. The police constable gazes around the hallway, but I can already tell that he possesses a sinister mind too. “Carry on,” he utters.
Just as the police offer wheels my slave down the doorstep, I say to a Governor, “Mr. Gregory, please escort my party back to the West Drawing Room, I want to assist the police constable in returning the slave to the coal mine.
“Yes, Lord Terrain, right away.” 
As the party recoils back into the room, I stand there, reminiscing upon a plan that I had created in my morbid mind the night before. 
“Well? Are you coming or not?” The police constable asks, still standing on the doorstep with my cousin’s wheelchair in front of him. 
I follow him out the doors, and close them behind me.

Drops of hard-hitting rain stab every goose bump that rises upon my skin as I emerge into the night air. “How has your night been, constable?
“It was fine, until I met this freak.” He signals to the handicap with his hairy thumb who he continued wheeling down the path.
“I know, sickening, isn’t he? My slaves head hangs even lower and we can hear his nose sniffle and a short cry surface from his pierced lips. Simultaneously, the police constable and I glare at each other and burst out in laughter.
As we wheel my cousin around the back of the manor, the rain grows harder and the wind propel my top hat right off my head. I hear the laughter and music coming from the room as I look through the crystal window. Through the thick strands of my golden hair, I can see the coal mine from afar. 
“Is that it over there?” the constable through the force of the wind.
“Yes, come on.”

When we arrived at the mine, I trod down the steps of the black cave, steadying myself with my cane. The constable follows behind, shoving and thrusting my cousin down the concrete. The smell of coal creeps up my nostrils. 
“Ouch!” He yelps. “Stop, please. My spine!”
“Shut up!” I bark.
“I hate you!” He shouts.
The constable stops in his place. I turn around in disbelief, my eyes wide, gawking at the filthy freak.
“What did you say to me?”
His lips pierce tighter. 
“Come on! What did you say to me?”
“I...h-hate you,” He mutters.
“That’s it. Constable, wheel him back up the steps. I have a better idea.”
“Yes, my lord.”
As the police offer carries him back up the steps, I slap the slave over his stubbly face, back and forth, back and forth, ensuring that I cause him the most horrid of pain. But this wasn’t enough.

When we appear back in the garden, I order the constable to go to the tool shed to fetch me a hammer and some nails. Once he arrives back with them, I tell him to push the freak under an oak tree nearby.
“Is this where you want him located, my lord?”
“Yes that will do. Could you please get some firewood, a torch and a rope?”
“Of course.”

The constable retreats back into the manor to obtain what I ordered. Meanwhile, I face my cousin in front of me. 
“What are you going to do to me?” He screams.
“Nothing out of the usual, my dear cousin,” I spit sarcastically. 
I take the hammer in one hand and a rust old nail in the other, place it accurately on my cousins left leg and...
“Ouch! Have mercy. Please! I beg of you.” He screeches into the cold, crisp air.
Once again, I take a nail, and hammer the bastard to his wheelchair. Again and again, repeatedly crucifying his thighs. Blood disgorges from him, splattering over my face.
The constable arrives back. “Here is the fire wood.” He holds a lit torch in his hand and hangs a bundle of long rope over his shoulder.
“Set the firewood in a pile under the tree, constable,” I instruct him.
“Yes, my lord.”

Tears of pain seep from my slaves eyes, streaming down his ugly face. 
“You should respect your superiors, cousin.” 
“Please, I apologize.”
“Not good enough,” I smirk.
I demand the constable to hand me the rope. When he does so, I wrap it around the neck of my slave like a willing python. 
“Please,” He chokes. 
“It is too late. Constable, tie the end of this rope to a sturdy branch.”
“Yes sir.”

Once the rope is secured tightly, I hold the end of it, ready to pull – to kill this freak.
“Anything you want to say to me?”
“I’m sorry,” he cries. 
“You better be.” I yank tightly on the rope and my cousin -along with the chair- shoot up into the air.
“Quick, light the firewood underneath him,” I decree the constable.
Once he does, we both stand back, watching my cousin’s corpse catch fire. The flames dance around his chair, singing the tires. His flesh cooks in the icy air; the wind causes the blaze to fly.
“Well done constable,” I articulate.
“Thank you, my lord.”

It is now midnight, and the moon glances at the world below it from behind the wispy clouds of lint, revealing to me that the inferno had burned away the last of it’s conflagration. All that is now present is the rusty, defiled wheelchair that is crippled amongst the ashes of my deceased cousin. 

The constable already returned to his obligation of law and his absence relaxed me. I am in a state of concord, defined only by the resonance of the wind that had died down, and the isolation that is present throughout the garden.

All of a sudden, I encompass a sentiment rousing within me - I want to rejoin my gathering. I turn around with my cane grasped firmly in might and lope my way back to the manor. My cane of silver leads me through the darkness to the doorsteps, and when I open them up, the scent of corpse intrigues me inside.

The music has dulled down to a virtue of dreariness. I emerge through the double-doors into the West Drawing Room. Across the room, I find my fiancé mingling with a Merchant. A cruel fist seizes my heart and slashes it in two. I storm over to the crime and rip them apart.
“Rowena, how dare you?” I bawl. 
“My lord, I apologize,” Stutters the Merchant.
I slap him in his vile face with the back of my solid hand and beat him to the floor with my cane. “Do not speak to me.” I state firmly. 
I grab my unfaithful fiancé by her golden hair and drag her out of the room, lecturing and causing uproar as I do so. I tow her down the hall, through a series of doors and haul her into a room like a horrid dog.

I gaze around the room. It is plastered in mirrors. Mirrors hang on the walls, on the ceiling. The floor is made of glass and the windows are bolted shut.
“How dare you cast impure infidelity upon our engagement?” I shriek. 
“My lord...” She attempts to speak.
“I shall ensure that you receive the most insufferable of pains and obtain the most horrid of punishments in which you deserve. You have shed a poisoned pestilence upon our rendezvous and I shall proceed no further in loving you.” I bellow.
“Please, my lord...”
“Shut up!” I strike her face with my hand. “You are revolting. You are of no value. You are contaminated.”
She begins to cry.

“You shall remain entombed in this room of mirrors, forced to stare at yourself every day. You shall have no escape from the horrible reality that reflects back at you. You are hideous!”
“I’m sorry,” She cries.
I slap her again. “You will think upon your sins and remember daily why you are here.”

It is dawn and I awake to the screams of my condemned fiancé from the mirror chamber downstairs. I situate my best robe and amble down the staircase. The stench of tobacco entices me and the perfume of the corpse nailed to the staircase harmonising with the aroma of wine triggers chills all over my body.

I saunter down the hall and depart outside, making my way around the side of my manor. The screams of my cheater grow louder and I peek through the crystal pristine window to fix my eyes upon her agony. She sits there, sulking in layers upon layers of her silk robes. 

I can see the mental torture she is experiencing. I notice how tormented and anguished she feels. She is trapped. I love it. My intention was never to dispose of her like my dead cousin, but instead, guilt her into suicide by revealing her unsightly reflection to her, and her not being able to escape it.

I had left her neither food nor water, only a knife. I watch as she stares down the weapons that could release her pain. She looks up to the mirror, waterfalls streaming down her fair cheeks. Her hair that once framed her beautiful pale face was now tatted and twisted by distress.

She takes the knife, gawks at her repulsive reflection and begins to slice strands upon strands of her greasy locks. Then, she slits her wrists. She wears the beautiful bracelets of blood as she then stabs into her breasts, slicing them off.

Blood spits on the mirror, her shriek echo through the chamber. She cuts into her stomach and starts hacking off her abdomen, ripping out her intestines until... My betrayer collapses in a pool of her own blood, her hair soaked by the liquid of death, her eyes closed shut, locked by her long eyelashes; her corpse, saturated in the crimson beauty.

My job is now done. My pride survives. No one can defeat me. I am superior to these dead, worthless people. I am content with my life. My conscience shall sleep well at night, knowing that anyone that resists me will die a painful death. All that is left to do now, is host another glorious party tonight.

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